


strangers on a train

by renegade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegade/pseuds/renegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire sees Enjolras on the subway home and misses his stop. It becomes a habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strangers on a train

**Author's Note:**

> This was vaguely inspired by [this](http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/3985247459.html) Craigslist post. Pretty sure it's not real and just a creative writing assignment so I don't feel that bad for being inspired by it.
> 
> This is pretty much 100% ridiculous fluff. I'm sorry. One of these days I'll post something more angsty. Maybe. I watch too many romantic comedies.
> 
> Title comes from [Strangers On A Train](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqjLr5GNSXE) by Lovage.

The fact that it's raining doesn't surprise Grantaire. Nor does it surprise him that he misses the train he needs to be on and now he has to wait fifteen minutes for the next one. His life is a series of no surprises when he has shit luck. He plucks his wet beanie off his head—his hair is wet, too. Why didn't he bring an umbrella? Why didn't he look at the weather report?

Once he sits tiredly on one of the benches in the station, he digs around his shoulder bag for his headphones—not his good ones, he keeps those at home. People have been mugged for less. He finds his Bad Day Playlist and looks at the wall opposite him sourly. All twenty songs on the playlist are in his Top 25 on iTunes because a) he really likes the songs and b) he uses this playlist a lot.

So what, he makes playlists for moods, a lot of people do. He has a playlist for anger, happiness, sex, sadness—he wishes he used the sex one more. He has some real gems on there.

Four and a half songs later, his train pulls up and Grantaire is secretly grateful that everyone got on the last one, because he might actually be able to sit. He can't sketch while he's standing—well, he could, he just wouldn't be able to sketch _well_. His favorite thing to do, besides listen to angry rock music from the early 90s, is people watch. And people-draw. While humankind is pretty much his least favorite thing about this godforsaken earth, they are fascinating subjects.

He makes himself comfortable on one of the plastic seats, as comfortable as one can be, and pulls his sketchbook out of his bag. Luckily, the pouring rain didn't soak his bag all the way through, even though he's chilled to the bone from being soaked. The train is nearly full, with a seat across from him empty, but no one willing to sit in it because of people sitting on each side of it. Grantaire begins to draw the empty seat with the two strangers. An old Asian woman, reading a newspaper in her native tongue, sits on the left. Her feet don't touch the ground. On the right, a middle-aged business man with grey flecks in his hair types away on his iPhone. His briefcase sits between his legs, spread slightly, and if there was someone sitting in the seat between them, they wouldn't have much room.

He's finishing the outline as the train lurches to a stop a few minutes later. A couple of people get off and more get on, squeezing into tight spaces and sharing the same handle bar. He hears a faint “excuse me” as someone wrestles their way through the throng of people. Grantaire doesn't look up until they sit down in the empty seat across from him. The businessman doesn't bother moving his legs closer together to make room. Grantaire looks down at his feet, clean red Converse standing out among all the shiny black shoes. His eyes move up slowly, up the dark jeans and to the bright red parka. This new passenger pulls his hood down, and shakes free blond ringlets. Grantaire self-consciously touches his own soddened curls.

They briefly make eye contact and Grantaire gives him a tiny smile. He gets one in return, and then the man pulls a book from his backpack. Grantaire quickly looks down at his sketchbook so he isn't staring, abandoning the idea he had before and immediately beginning to sketch the person sitting across from him. He thinks of potential names for him, just to call him in his head. He doesn't want to reduce him to “the blond” or “red shoes” because there are a million other people like that and something catches in Grantaire's throat that tells him _he's not like other people_. No names he comes up with are fitting for the beautiful creature with the sloping, elegant nose and cherry red lips.

He's completely absorbed in his book. Grantaire takes another fleeting glance at him, catching the books title: _Robespierre: A Revolutionary Life_. He's probably a history major. He looks no older than someone in his early twenties, and the only reason Grantaire can believe he's out of high school is the fact that he's riding the train alone when it's raining outside. And what high schooler cares about Robespierre?

It's very possible he's a precocious senior in high school. But Grantaire is going to choose to believe he's a student. A history major, probably with an emphasis in French history. Maybe he's minoring in French too. He's probably studied abroad and has a beautiful French girlfriend waiting for him. He'll work at the Louvre. Grantaire has no way of knowing these things for sure, but he feels jealousy bubbling up at the thought of anyone else touching his golden hair and kissing his full lips.

Grantaire stays on the train, sketching the man reading. His stop comes and goes and he doesn't even realize it. He's too busy shading the man's curls, wishing he had his colored pencils on him to shade in his lips, make his Cupid's bow more pronounced, add the slight pink to his cheeks. His complexion is youthful. Grantaire scrubs his palm against the rough stubble on his own jaw. He looks down at his drawing. The passengers on either side of the man are just a ghostly outline, but _he_ is detailed, as detailed as he can be while drawing on a train.

The train stops. The man in the red parka stands up and puts his book away and shoulders his way out of the train. Just like that, he's gone. Grantaire stares at his empty seat before realizing he should have gotten off the train ages ago. He doesn't follow him and instead, continues riding the train until the next stop before getting on a train to take him home. He thinks about red parkas and red Converse and golden hair the entire time, his sketchbook held close to his chest. He will probably never see him again and there is a slight ache on the inside of his ribs. Grantaire sees hundreds of faces every day, most of which he never notices or sees a second time. But this face was different.

He gets home much later than he intended and goes to transfer his sketch to a canvas.

 

Grantaire begins getting on the later train, just to see him. He sits and hopes that he'll get on the train again. Every time it stops, his heart goes along with it. He looks longingly at the doors, waiting for those red Converse to step into the train. His face is starting to fade from Grantaire's memory, the only reminder being the drawing he did of him the only time he ever saw him. Days and days go by without so much as a brief sighting, and Grantaire thinks maybe it's time to move on. He's never spoken to the man; why is he so invested in seeing him again?

He had just looked so radiant. In a sea of black and navy blue and stuffy businessmen, he was there, young and thin and blemish-free. Grantaire wants to know how his lips would feel on his own. He'd have to stand on his toes a little to reach him, but he doesn't mind. He's come to terms with the fact that he will always be on the shorter end of the spectrum for men.

It's raining again. Grantaire's boots are covered in mud and he tries to kick them against the wall to get most of it off before stepping on the train. He's soaked to the bone again, cursing himself that he forgot his umbrella again. He has a hood this time, but it's proved useless with the heavy wind. A chill runs up his spine. He's going to get sick, he knows it. He drags his sorry ass to the train, plopping down heavily with a slight squish where his water-logged clothes are pressed against the seat.

His hands are too frozen to get his sketchbook or iPod. So he just stares at the empty seats in front of him. Grantaire daydreams of hot coffee and warm, fluffy blankets in his apartment—even if he knows his coffee is shitty and his blankets thin. The heater barely works. But he can close his eyes and pretend. The train slows to a stop and commuters flow in and out and a flash of red catches Grantaire's eye when he opens them. His breath is caught in his throat and his heart beats wildly. Here had thought he may never see _him_ again, but that is definitely him, shuffling through the people. This time he's wearing rain boots in addition to his red parka.

 _Prepared for the rain, huh?_ He wants to say. The man would laugh, probably, and look down at his boots. Grantaire would smile and then complain that this keeps happening to him. And maybe he'd move to sit next to him and they'd chat, introduce themselves, and shake hands. Before Grantaire gets off his stop, he would give him his number. Later that night, he would get a text and they'd hit it off. They'd get coffee. They would kiss. They would have the best “how we met” story out of their friends.

But Grantaire says nothing. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat while he watches the other man—he should really think of a name to call him.

He watches through his hair, watches as he puts on headphones and closes his eyes. His eyelashes are long and Grantaire just wants to reach out and brush his thumbs over his cheeks. He wants to push his mouth against those red, full lips.

Instead, he just watches. His heart twists with the knowledge that he may never see him again once he gets off this train. Someone else may kiss him tonight. Someone else may get to touch him the way Grantaire desperately wants to. He's a complete stranger; the only things he knows about this man are the things he's made up in his head.

Grantaire stays on the train past his stop again and watches him rest his eyes. He looks tired. Grantaire wonders if he has a job that drains him of energy, if he needs a shoulder massage when he comes home, and maybe a warm compress. The train stops and he stirs, blinking blearily around the train, and catching Grantaire's eye.

 _Hi_ Grantaire thinks. He doesn't speak out loud. He gets a nod and a smile and bright blue eyes send a shiver down Grantaire's spine. Or maybe it's the chill of rain water. He thinks about getting up and following him out, asking his name, having a conversation. But he doesn't move. He watches him leave, watches him pause at the door of the train and glance at him, before he disappears once more.

 

He sees him sporadically. He sees him in the morning, sometimes, with a travel cup of coffee and a sleepy smile. In the afternoon, he looks harried and rushed. On Grantaire's trip home, he always looks like he's had a long day. He still manages to look like walking _sex_ , and Grantaire isn't sure if he wants to _be_ him or _do_ him.

He leans toward the latter.

He still says nothing.

He watches him change with the seasons. Red parkas turn to red peacoats, with a black cap pulled over those golden curls. There are cheeks pink with cold and he uses chapstick to keep those perfect lips from cracking and bleeding like Grantaire's. Grantaire wants to hold his gloved hand and take him into a warm, heated bakery and they'd get gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate. He'd kiss his cold cheeks and nose to warm him up.

He sees him laugh, once, when he's on the phone. Grantaire isn't eavesdropping, he has his headphones on, so he hasn't heard any of the conversation. He does have limits. It's a real laugh, and then he blushes and covers his mouth to keep from making too much noise and disturbing those around them. But Grantaire saw his straight, pearly teeth. He self-consciously touches his own teeth, slightly crooked and not as white. Grantaire smokes. He drinks. He could never afford braces.

He looks away from him and doesn't say anything, only turns his music up louder.

 

Grantaire sees him again during the coldest day of the year so far and for the first time, he doesn't look so radiant. His nose and eyes are red-rimmed and he coughs into his elbow. Flu season is full swing. Grantaire was out last week, curled up in a little ball of mucus-y misery in his bed. He drank cough syrup like it was water.

He could offer him a lozenge. Break the ice. He'd be grateful, laugh about how he hadn't gotten his flu shot this year, and Grantaire would sympathize.

He sneezes.

 _Bless you_ Grantaire thinks. He doesn't say anything. Why doesn't he say anything? His words dry up in his throat every time he sees him. He's afraid his voice will sound too deep, too gruff, not kind enough for him. His fingers aren't smooth or soft; he would probably flinch if he touched him. He's not good enough. They make eye contact, briefly, only for it to be broken when he starts coughing. Grantaire's fingers twitch for his bag, but he's frozen.

He curses himself as the train leaves the platform.

 

Winter turns to spring and the red peacoat is replaced by a red hoodie. He's easy to spot. Sometimes, he sits a few rows away from Grantaire, and Grantaire sketches the back of his head or his profile, always coloring in his hoodie and Converse.

Grantaire always told himself: next time. He'll talk to him next time. He'll ask his name. He'll ask what his favorite food is. Anything. They see each other, they recognize each other, and they exchange smiles. He won't be slapped across the face for trying to strike up a conversation.

 _Next time_ , Grantaire tells himself when he watches him exit the train again.

Next time comes too soon. And the next time. Soon, the red hoodie is a red t-shirt and the air is turning hot and humid. The train is stuffy and uncomfortable, too many bodies crammed into one space.

He steps onto the packed train and Grantaire's breath hitches, like it always does, a heat spreading throughout his chest and up to his cheeks. But there's something off. He's not smiling, or laughing, or reading a book. He subtly wipes away a tear with his thumb and keeps his head down.

Grantaire is frozen, again. He wants to go over and envelope him in a hug, ask him what's wrong, tell him it's going to be okay. He doesn't know this person. He can't just ask why he's crying. The train stops. Grantaire tries to step forward, make his way past the few people separating the two of them, but he's already stepping off the train in a hurry. Grantaire could chase after him. He thinks about it.

Why doesn't he?

Grantaire holds onto the railing and waits for the next stop so he can transfer to go home.

 

It's raining again. Grantaire spilled coffee on his pants and managed to tear his jacket. He's going to have to sew a patch on it because he doesn't have the money to replace it. He pulls out his iPod and scrolls right to his Bad Day Playlist and jams his earbuds in, scowling at the wall opposite him on the train.

He closes his eyes. The train stops. People file in and out. Someone sits next to him, but Grantaire doesn't open his eyes. He wants to forget the world and listen to his music so loud that he goes deaf. Out of instinct, and habit, he opens his eyes at the usual stop where he and the man in red would part. Next to him, the body stands up, prepared to get up. Grantaire looks up at them, only to see a familiar red parka and a smile.

He gets up too.

He follows.

Words are escaping him again. His throat is dry and he suddenly can't remember anything he's ever practiced to say to him. He's said it in the mirror, he's daydreamed, he's dreamt it while he sleeps, he's replayed conversations that never happened over and over.

“What's your name?” he finally asks, reaching out to put a hand on his elbow.

He turns around. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips as he smiles. “Enjolras,” he says. His voice is surprisingly deep—it's kind, but firm. He's sure of himself.

Grantaire swallows and nods. “Grantaire,” he replies, voice hoarse for no reason at all. He runs a hand through his hair nervously.

“Nice to meet you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says. _Enjolras_. Grantaire wants to say it out loud, feel it on his tongue. Enjolras holds out a hand to shake and Grantaire takes it. His palms are sweaty and clammy and he waits for Enjolras to pull his hand back, to wipe it on his jeans, and leave. But he takes his hand, gripping firmly.

Grantaire looks at their entwined hands and nods, agreeing to nothing in particular. He knows his name. It's a start. He can strike up conversation next time—use his name.

“I—” Grantaire starts, but there isn't enough saliva in his mouth to be able to speak. He's seen Enjolras for nearly a year on the train, misses his stop every time, on purpose, just to see him get off the train. They'd only exchanged smiles and glances and yet Grantaire feels close to him. Like they're old friends. He swallows again, and makes another attempt. “I missed my stop,” he finishes, lamely.

“You miss your stop a lot, then,” Enjolras says matter-of-factly. There really is no way to deny it.

“Yeah, I,” Grantaire says, haltingly. “I—I should go back. Home. Not back home, because I didn't come from home, but just. Go back in that direction. Because I missed it.” He winces. He knows how words work and how to make sentences, dammit.

“Right,” Enjolras says, smiling. “You do that.”

Grantaire tries not to make a noise of frustration. It bubbles up his throat, but never leaves, and he manages to swallow it. He can string a coherent sentence together. “Stay dry,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, and he nearly smacks himself for the stupidity of that sentence.

Enjolras steps forward, invading Grantaire's personal space, and he can feel sweat on the back of his neck. His hands are clammy again. His heart is about to beat right out of his chest. “You too,” Enjolras says. They're sharing breath, now.

The kiss, when it happens, is chaste, barely a touch, but Enjolras might as well have sucked all the air out of Grantaire's lungs. He stands there, dumbfounded, as Enjolras pulls up his hood and heads above ground and into the rain. He thinks about chasing him, kissing him hard in the rain in the middle of the sidewalk. But there's no need for dramatics. He knows his name. The rest will come in time.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand some lovely [art](http://juanjoltaire.tumblr.com/post/58995368782/strangers-on-a-train-an-illustration-for) by [juanjoltaire](http://juanjoltaire.tumblr.com/). Like that shit.
> 
> [MORE ART](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/59510196674/automne-hiver-printemps-ete-next) BY KANNIBAL


End file.
